


Peachy/Cape

by Occula



Category: U2
Genre: M/M, schmoopy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 11:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Occula/pseuds/Occula
Summary: They spent the day in a cold European hotel room.





	1. Peachy

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter originally posted in LJ Oct. 11, 2002.

He stood by the window in the gray winter light. He was beautifully naked, and in his hand he held a ripe peach.

“Sure you don’t want it?”

I shook my head. I was on the bed, leaning against the headboard and pillows, naked too, with blankets up to my chest. “Aren’t you cold?”

He shrugged and, looking into my eyes, took a big, deliberate bite of the fruit. Several bites. He paid no attention to the juice on his lips, his chin. He ate as sloppily and as sexily as possible, looking at me. Juice on his moustache, on the corners of his lips.

I moaned for the first time when drops fell onto his chest.

It wasn’t my first moan of the day by any means, just the first during that particular scene. I slid lower in the bed, suddenly aware of the weight of the covers on my bare hips, thighs, belly, aware of my returning arousal. At my age. I kept thinking we were finished, this must surely be the last possible time today, and still he kept teasing me, inciting me, bringing me back even when I’d thought myself exhausted.

He smiled and actually rubbed the last bites of the peach onto his chest before he threw it away. Then he stood there, the moisture on him shining in the dim light. I couldn’t stand it. I erupted out of bed and grabbed his face between my hands and licked him, delighting in his soft laughter at his success in rousing me this time, every time. I licked and tasted and bit his chin, his lips, his neck, his chest, until I thought I’d go mad unless I tasted his tongue on mine, and so I went back up and claimed it. Liquor, certainly; fruit, of course; smoke, too, a bit; but mostly just him, his dizzying self, delicious and intoxicating.

He stood still under my ministrations. The last time, hours or minutes before, his hands had been busy everywhere, never still, but so gentle I’d thought I would lose my mind before he finally granted me release. My turn. Kissing his mouth, I felt him everywhere I could reach, cupping, kneading, petting him. Every time, every opportunity was a miracle, a surprise.

He was already groaning and quivering when I trailed my tongue and hands down his body, his ribs, his hips, closer and closer to his center but not there, not yet. Not even when I knelt before him, licking inside his thighs, further and further, higher, closer. Not until his hand touched my head. He would never push or even try to guide my head, but that involuntary, soft touch told me how badly he wanted it now. Very badly. I steered him back the half step it took for him to be supported against the windowsill, hoping it wasn’t too cold.

And then I stopped everything and just regarded him for one more long moment of anticipation before I began again, still teasingly.

I licked him, tiny, delicately, here and there all along the shaft. I licked away the clear drops already at his tip and ran my tongue firmly around and around it until his legs were shaking. I wet my lips and took hard toothless nibbles of him all the way up and down. And I saw his hands gripping the ledge he leaned against.

When his hips pushed forward to me — please, please, Adam, they expressed — then I took him in, suddenly, all at once, between firm lips, hearing him gasp. I sucked him aggressively then, tightly, my cheeks sucking in, my tongue busy on him all the time. I made him moan and I made him thrust helplessly even further into my mouth. God, I loved it, to give him this pleasure, make him insane, have this momentary power over him. I flicked my tongue harder and harder, moaning myself, until he cried out sharply and then came, crying my name as he filled my mouth with dark, sexy bitterness. I never found it likeable, but I loved it nevertheless.

When I finally drew back to look up at him, his head was flung back, his chest still heaving. I licked my way back up his torso and kissed his grin. “Oh my _God,_ ” he said, panting. “I had no _idea_ how much you liked peaches.” I laughed against his mouth and held him while he caught his breath.


	2. Cape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that day in a cold hotel room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally published on LJ Oct. 18. 2002.

The thin afternoon light of winter was fading, very slowly. Adam and I had been in this room all day, napping, laughing, eating, and, most of all, making love, over and over again.

I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t get enough, couldn’t keep my hands off him. Was it pheremonal, chemical? Something about him enticed me, time and again. Each fresh glimpse of him, each time I awoke in his warm embrace prompted me to tease him and provoke him and see whether I could arouse him one more time. Finally it became a challenge to see for how long we could continue, even long after I’d lost count.

I lay in bed trying to reckon it up. Upon waking. In the shower. After we napped after breakfast. With the pillows. When I woke him up. By the window. Under the blankets. With the peach.

The bathroom door opened and there he was again. The cold light seemed to warm from shining on him, instead of the other way round. He had one of the blankets draped around him. “Now I see why they gave us so many blankets,” he said. “Is this building in fact heated?”

“This room is,” I said, grinning.

He rolled his eyes at me and then grinned back. Such a beautiful smile, so different from anyone else’s. “This _bed_ is,” he said, walking around to the table where his cigarettes were.

I just watched. Delightful bits of him peeped out from the blanket here and there. He adjusted the blanket and reminded me of something … “You look like … a highwayman. A musketeer. Somebody handsome and dangerous from the nineteenth century. Or eighteenth.”

He snorted. “How so?”

“I think it’s the cape.”

“I was going for a bespectacled superhero of some kind. A _warm,_ bespectacled superhero.”

“I believe they generally wear some kind of heroic tights beneath the cape,” I said.

“Whereas highwaymen were renowned for their nudity? With all that horseback riding and swordplay?”

“Okay, I think the analogy is breaking down, but the handsome and dangerous part remains.”

He exhaled smoke through another smile. “I don’t know about the danger part of it,” he said as I got up and came to share his cigarette. “Actually the handsome bit is up for debate as well.”

“Not at all.” I put the cigarette in the ashtray. “Turn around.”

“Why?”

“Humor me.”

He gave a martyred sigh and turned. I studied him for a moment. Would it work? Probably. “Hold still,” I said, pulling the blanket from his shoulders and twisting it.

“Come on, it’s cold,” he protested. I wrapped the blanket quickly around his compliant arms several times, pulled, tucked, tightened, and voila. His arms were bound mostly behind him.

When I turned him around again he was grinning. “What is this?”

“This is you tied up,” I said.

“God, Edge, much more and you’ll just have to take me to hospital. I’m not a teenager.”

“You are far sexier than a teenager,” I said, leaning against him. “You are a splendid, gorgeous, adult man and I wouldn’t have you any other way. And at the moment you’re at my mercy.”

“I hope you don’t have any,” he challenged. Despite his protests his eyes were alight. I steered him to the bed and guided him onto his back.

“Is that all right? Will it hurt your arms?”

“No, it's fine.”

“Great. Now. Don’t move.” I didn’t have a plan. He brought out the spontaneous mischief in me, that’s all. I looked at his beloved face with the corners of his mouth turned slightly in that wicked, intrigued smile. His straight, muscular neck. Shoulders and chest thrust forward because of his arms being beneath him. I kept looking; I lay alongside him and traveled with my whole body, not just my eyes. I rested my head on his stomach for a moment, soft against my cheek, and watched his erection grow before my eyes. Gazed at his hips, his thighs. I breathed with him, on him.

He shivered. “Mmm, that’s warm.”

I continued. Hard knees. Sharp shins. Feet. Smelling faintly of soap. I tried sucking on his toes to see how he liked it. He loved it. He began making startled moaning sounds and squirming. His feet were icy; the warmth of my mouth must have contributed to the sensations. That reminded me that he must have been freezing, though. When I was finished I drew some covers up to his knees and crawled up beside him again, but at an angle so we weren’t touching.

Then I leaned over him and just kissed him. Gently at first, tentatively, allowing no other physical contact. Just our mouths. Not that he’d ever needed his hands to make me crazy. When he lifted his head from the pillow I pushed it back down, lightly. When he tried to roll toward me I took my mouth from his — he groaned — and I said, “No, be still.” That made him groan lower as I began again, rolling my tongue around his, kissing him harder and harder until he was moving his hips and his moans began to sound like whimpers.

“Do you like kissing me?” I asked him.

“God, yes, I love it.” His voice was hoarse. I saw his arms strain for a moment.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

“Oh. Please. Please,” he said.

Instead I kissed him for another while. Until his noises had taken on a definite needy tone.

“I told you to lie still,” I said. “You’re moving.” He kept straining toward me. Especially his hips.

“I can’t help it. You’re driving me mad. I want to _feel_ you.”

“But you can’t, can you?”

“Not unless you let me,” he said; his voice was heavy and passionate, but that amusement was still there. Always there, which is one of the thousands of things I love about him.

His face was flushed. I stroked his forehead. “You’re not so cold now.”

“My God, I never knew what a tease you are.”

“I thought you were tired, too.”

He moaned. “You’re diabolical. Really. You’re some kind of sexual demon.”

“Are your arms still all right?”

“Fine.”

I stroked his neck, lightly, and kissed many points on it that I dearly loved. I did the same to his collarbones. Chest. Nipples. Ribs. Hips. Knees. I sucked on the front of his left hip until a rather large mark appeared, holding him down with my hands. Then I matched it on the other side. He was so responsive, so vocal. It was impossible not to respond. It was always impossible, I was always responding to him, to his very presence, his smell, his voice, his stance, everything.

Suddenly I was done teasing him. And myself as well. I lay beside him so I could look into his eyes while I grasped him in my hand. Those expressive, devilish eyes, widening as he gasped, closing as I gripped him firmly and he threw his head back, shining as I began to stroke him and he came back to return my gaze.

He gasped out “Can I — move —" although he already was, and I said “Yes” as he thrust into my hand, matching my pace, which was already increasing. I was against him from chest to knees and brought my hips forward against his waist. Just that contact with his warm skin was enticing, maddening. This time he began to talk, those cornflower blue eyes meeting mine, rapidly telling me how he loved me, he’d wanted me since we were boys, he’d always loved me, I was beautiful, he couldn’t believe, still, that we were together, how good it felt, how close he was to coming. I responded in kind, moving my hand faster and faster, harder, with his body tense and hard, until his face pulled tight and he threw his head back, crying out inarticulately, so beautiful, so handsome, so everything.

When he had recovered for only a moment, still panting, he rolled off the bed and gasped, “Come sit on the side —" He knelt before me, flushed, arms still wrapped up behind him, and took me into his mouth for at least the fourth time that day. Each time so wonderful yet so different. I was already close, because he himself was so exciting, so exciting to watch. God, his mouth, his tongue, where did he learn, he made me inarticulate with pleasure and with joy, and usually in the end all I could manage was his name. It was, as always, shockingly good, and I cried out as best I could that I loved him, I loved him, I loved him.


End file.
